"The New Tired..."

 

I do  not know about all of you, but I have been feeling a new kind of tired and I am not sure whether it is a tired due to a major reset in my thinking or a tired due to well, just being tired of the worry over the last year and a half.  I suppose it really doesn't matter because tired is tired is tired...

With the isolation demanded by most of us over the last year and a half,  you cannot not help but find solice in the peace of your home, your family and your friends, even if you aren't able to see them as much as you had hoped.  Some people, I have discovered are less afraid than I am or have been.  Hopefully, I am not alone in this on-going need to still build a system of protection given our circumstances...and I mean ALL of us...We must remain vigilant.  Being overly protective makes everyone tired.  It is part of "adulting."  

I think I plan my activities more than I used to do.  Everything I do, results in a plan.  This is so NOT part of my DNA.  I never planned for anything.  More importantly, I never worried about planning anything either.  I threw "caution to the wind."  How incredible that at this stage in my life, everything has changed.  Every move, every decision is now thought out and planned with the least amount of consequence.  Decades ago, I would neve have thought to live my life like that.

Over the last year and half, I have gone through two pairs of walking sneakers, countless pairs of sweats and t-shirts.  It became incredibly important to walk at my local park, in the fresh air, safely reflecting on my fears for all of us.  I walked so I could take a short reprieve from absorbing all of the fear that was in my head and surrounding me.  I stopped watching the news.  I knew what I needed to know as I saw the awe in my conversations with family and friends.

I do get comfort from those who are stepping out and rediscovering their world again. I was able to safely hug my mother for the first time in almost two years and I am grateful for all of the protocols that are in necessary. I am slowly getting to that place where I accept the tiredness I feel. I accepted the tiredness of getting vaccinated. That was after the fear of sitting in a chair for 15 minutes wondering if I would have an adverse reaction.  I take naps. I sleep in later and find a new strength to do what is appropriate for my body, my mind. The loneliness I have felt this past year has turned into a new awareness and a knowledge to plan for my future.  Maybe plans or planning isn't so bad after all.  Maybe, plans, albeit loose and subject to change, keep us from losing everything that is important.    

"The Borderline Illiterate"

It is so unbelievably ironic that I live approxiamately four to five miles from my old high school.  On most of my errands, I pass by the school and I can not help but go back in time, a time in my life that still remains part of my reality each and every time.    

 1976-1977. I was in tenth grade.  Relieved to have lived through ninth grade without a scratch or embarrassing incident, tenth grade was going to be a breeze.  That is until geometry class and English class.  Geometry with Mrs. Long was a welcome diversion to English class with Mrs. Petty, believe me.  The irony was that English was foremost always my favorite subject.  So much so that I had set my sights on going to a school of journalism somewhere and becoming a reporter.   I was forever writing.  Each and every day my passion remained and each and every day, I attended Geometry class twice a day so I would pass the state exam.  Mrs. Long let me bring my lunch to the second class.  

On one particular day, I was not exactly focused.  I was chit-chatting with my friends in English class, happily ready for Mrs. Petty.  We opened our grammar textbooks and I began my day-dreaming.  As if on cue, Mrs. Petty asked me if I knew the difference between a phrase and a clause.  There she was, this petite, husky-voiced woman, impeccably dressed each and every day, waiting for my response.  I looked down at my textbook and well, I answered incorrectly.  "It was a CLAUSE!!!!  You idiot," I said to myself.  At that moment, Mrs. Petty looked at me and said "Well, I guess we have a border-line illiterate in our class."  My friend behind me, burst out laughing.  I did not think it was funny.  I lowered my head, held back the tears, mortified, embarrassed.  I wanted to vomit but luckily I had not eaten my lunch yet.  Besides, I refused to give up the cinnamon twist donut I had had for breakfast.  

I could not wait to get out of her class.  The bell rang and I ran out of the classroom and went to my locker.  I fell apart in tears into the door of my locker trying to figure out what I had done that was so horrible.  She knew I wanted to be a writer.  She knew I valued her opinion.  I had respect for my teachers. All I wantted to do was to go home but I knew well enough that my mother would insist I finish the day.  In the 70's, teachers had their say and the ownership of their classes, plain and simple.  I did not go to my guidance counselor.  I did not go to an administrator.  I made it to the end of the day and came home and told my mother.  "I'm never going to become a writer! EVER!" I cried.  "Forget writing.  Forget it all."   My mother let me cry and gently reminded me that I should not give up.  "Borderline illiterate...I'll show her," I told myself.

11th grade came soon enough and Mrs.Petty was behind me. I finished high school and evenutally ended up becoming a local reporter and then, as fate would have it, a teacher.  At the age of 42, I was officially a teacher and not just any teacher, an ENGLISH teacher and there has not been a year that has gone by that I have not thought of Mrs. Petty. There is not a day in the classroom that I do not think about every word that comes out of my mouth.  The words that come out of our mouths have a profound effect on the people that respect us.  I learned that at the age of 16.  I realized growing up just how important the words from those we look up to have on our passions and our drive to be "someone special."  I spent years searching for that kind of validation. Mrs. Petty wasn't the last person to discourage me or tell me I was not capable. However, I can thank Mrs. Petty for making me a teacher.  I can thank Mrs. Petty for an education far beyond a clause and a phrase.