I haven’t been sleeping well. A little congestion, a little existential dread—you know the drill. I woke this morning feeling like I could crawl back into bed for another seven hours, but that havoc on my back is a bad choice.
It’s winter storm season in Kansas. The house is silent as the world goes white beyond our windows. If I listen closely, the sleet/snow blowing up against back door almost sounds like waves. A rustling ocean just outside the house that ebbs and flows, but the danger of this tide means I can’t step into it.
That’s the dread, right? Here in the hypnotic swing of sound is a reminder that something is coming. Inauguration Day is two weeks away and there are miles to go before we sleep. I shudder for what this country may become while also, perhaps naively, hoping I am wrong.
Since I am a teacher, much of my life is split into semesters. This week I’ll begin my 45th. It’s taken many years of doing things wrong to reach a point of peace in the classroom. I’m good at what I do. I make my students better communicators. I am bad at thousands of other things, but teaching writing is my strength. My goal is always to help students articulate what they believe and why and to make them defenders of their beliefs and of the people they care for. Would that we all were better at this.
I’m trying to be better.
To that end, I’m slowing down. I believe in the quiet. The stillness. The presence that comes from simply not doing anything. In my personal life I’ve learned this lesson, but I’m going to try to do it professionally. No more saying yes when I don’t want to do something, no more over planning, no more thinking about each decision over and over until my job is my life.
I want more for myself. I want to be so still that when the wind blows sleet and snow on my back porch, I can hear the ocean in it.
I wish the same for all of you—a slow, still peace that centers and anchors you into the new year.
Shannon Carriger 