The first week of school has come and gone in a blur of adolescent color, smell, and energy.
I’ve survived with my newly found anxiety bubbling up over two days like a slow simmering pot readying itself for stiff noodles. I tried to lower the heat, but it came nonetheless.
In the mayhem of this week, I’ve rededicated myself to spending time doing just what I am doing right now: writing.
First, I am an English teacher. If I don’t write, I won’t really be practicing what I preach. To be a writing teacher, I should continue my own passions and dreams of writing. To do anything less would be inauthentic and not serve the adolescents trying, or not, to improve themselves as writers.
Two, in order to maintain my own sanity in the muddy, shifting ground of my renewed existence of teacher, and mom, I must write. If I don’t, I will lose my footing and find myself drowning in that mud with a mouth and nose smeared with the dark, gooey liquid of serving everyone else but my own needs.
Here I am writing a blog that might not have any real purpose. But perhaps it is the twining, silver thread of my own passion and sanity in the midst of motherhood and over a hundred adolescent’s angst, and self-discovery. It is my lifeline to the quietness of my heart and its fibers reverberate and sing to my soul.