Tired
Tired.
Regular tired?
I don't know.
I do work. I'm not quarantined. Except on the weekends, life goes on pretty much the same as always: 5:00, alarm goes off, I stagger to the bathroom and pee; 5:05, I go out to the living room, sit in my recliner, get on Facebook for a few minutes, and then I write; 6:00, I let the dog out and then shower; by 7:00 I've said goodbye to Marci and am out the door.
The drive is long and calming in the grainy, gray dawn. Yesterday it was snowing and the roads were slushy. I say my morning prayer with my eyes wide-open each day as I head down a wide, empty Main Street. A county sheriff truck is usually out, one or two other cars also. Prayer over, I turn on NPR before heading under the freeway. The two gas stations on the other side are lit up, the outline of Cedar Mountain behind them becoming more distinct. To the east, the sky lightens quickly behind the mountains. The details of this wide desert valley gain significance as I head away from town and the freeway.
7:16--The sun tops the range and light explodes across the western part of the valley, distant peaks highlighted. Space is grand here. All encompassing. I can see 70 miles easily. Closer in, an old volcano that once was an island in ancient Lake Bonneville glows pink against a pastel sky. This is my time. I listen to the news, take in the earth and distance, and ground myself for the day.
Forty-five minutes, and one stop-light later, I arrive at the residential treatment center where I teach English to thirty students, grades six through twelve, in thee rotations of ten per class.
My time is over until the drive home. Radio traffic on walkie-talkies. Multi-tasking. The print log. Grading papers. Student questions. Can I get a book? Can I sharpen my pencil? Can you radio me to do laundry? Can I take out the dog? Did you grade my essay? Can I check on my peer? Can you call Group 2 for a confrontation? And so on.
There are grand moments too. Open Mic Friday--a student reads a poem rich with imagery and alliteration. Another gives an honest account of something that hurt him deeply--for the first time not exaggerating or glorifying his role but instead taking solid accountability. Today when I left, Group 1 was having a party. The boys, many choir students, were singing in harmony. It was stunningly warm and beautiful.
Mostly though, work is draining. Teaching children is just that way. The joy is there; otherwise nobody would do it. But there is no peace in the classroom no matter how good your classroom management is. Imagine trying to pass on what is most sacred to you at Chucky Cheese. Image trying to say grace at a dinner set out on the runway of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport two days before Thanksgiving.
Tired is to be expected.
But am I that sort of tired? Or is it something more? Why it should be that way, I'm not sure. Though these are COVID-19 days, my routine outside of the weekend has hardly changed.
Yet, I am tired. Very tired. Perhaps it is unstated worry. Dislike for the unknown.
Tomorrow no longer hangs as a predictable extension of today. There is no continuity. The mural of our future is extended one day at a time. The cathedral of our lives no longer has blueprints. We stack stones blindly to span chasms between now and tomorrow unsure whether the wall of tomorrow on the other side has moved or not.
Optimistic? Yes.
Belief in a divine plan? Yes.
Sure that we will get through this? Yes--at least most of us.
Yet, for now, tomorrow as we once knew it has vanished.
Tired is to be expected. Tired is okay. At least until some tomorrow we know better than the tomorrow we know today.
I will go easy on myself. I have no choice. This is a time for softness, for flexibility when dealing with our moods. Facing the unknown daily is not something we are used to.
Regular tired?
I don't know.
I do work. I'm not quarantined. Except on the weekends, life goes on pretty much the same as always: 5:00, alarm goes off, I stagger to the bathroom and pee; 5:05, I go out to the living room, sit in my recliner, get on Facebook for a few minutes, and then I write; 6:00, I let the dog out and then shower; by 7:00 I've said goodbye to Marci and am out the door.
The drive is long and calming in the grainy, gray dawn. Yesterday it was snowing and the roads were slushy. I say my morning prayer with my eyes wide-open each day as I head down a wide, empty Main Street. A county sheriff truck is usually out, one or two other cars also. Prayer over, I turn on NPR before heading under the freeway. The two gas stations on the other side are lit up, the outline of Cedar Mountain behind them becoming more distinct. To the east, the sky lightens quickly behind the mountains. The details of this wide desert valley gain significance as I head away from town and the freeway.
7:16--The sun tops the range and light explodes across the western part of the valley, distant peaks highlighted. Space is grand here. All encompassing. I can see 70 miles easily. Closer in, an old volcano that once was an island in ancient Lake Bonneville glows pink against a pastel sky. This is my time. I listen to the news, take in the earth and distance, and ground myself for the day.
Forty-five minutes, and one stop-light later, I arrive at the residential treatment center where I teach English to thirty students, grades six through twelve, in thee rotations of ten per class.
My time is over until the drive home. Radio traffic on walkie-talkies. Multi-tasking. The print log. Grading papers. Student questions. Can I get a book? Can I sharpen my pencil? Can you radio me to do laundry? Can I take out the dog? Did you grade my essay? Can I check on my peer? Can you call Group 2 for a confrontation? And so on.
There are grand moments too. Open Mic Friday--a student reads a poem rich with imagery and alliteration. Another gives an honest account of something that hurt him deeply--for the first time not exaggerating or glorifying his role but instead taking solid accountability. Today when I left, Group 1 was having a party. The boys, many choir students, were singing in harmony. It was stunningly warm and beautiful.
Mostly though, work is draining. Teaching children is just that way. The joy is there; otherwise nobody would do it. But there is no peace in the classroom no matter how good your classroom management is. Imagine trying to pass on what is most sacred to you at Chucky Cheese. Image trying to say grace at a dinner set out on the runway of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport two days before Thanksgiving.
Tired is to be expected.
But am I that sort of tired? Or is it something more? Why it should be that way, I'm not sure. Though these are COVID-19 days, my routine outside of the weekend has hardly changed.
Yet, I am tired. Very tired. Perhaps it is unstated worry. Dislike for the unknown.
Tomorrow no longer hangs as a predictable extension of today. There is no continuity. The mural of our future is extended one day at a time. The cathedral of our lives no longer has blueprints. We stack stones blindly to span chasms between now and tomorrow unsure whether the wall of tomorrow on the other side has moved or not.
Optimistic? Yes.
Belief in a divine plan? Yes.
Sure that we will get through this? Yes--at least most of us.
Yet, for now, tomorrow as we once knew it has vanished.
Tired is to be expected. Tired is okay. At least until some tomorrow we know better than the tomorrow we know today.
I will go easy on myself. I have no choice. This is a time for softness, for flexibility when dealing with our moods. Facing the unknown daily is not something we are used to.
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