My New Adventure

Tomorrow, June 29th, starts a new adventure.  At least, the part that starts tomorrow is that I’m technically moving into my parents’ house for the next few months. I’ll be back in NoVa—staying in guest rooms and maybe an Incredibles bed a time or two, but my home is not really my own starting tomorrow.  Someone else is living in my condo, my little sanctuary, my cozy, used-to-be-filled with books and mugs 700 foot castle. 

It’s not for nothing that I’ve given away furniture, packed up clothes, books, and makeup. That’s the adventure part.  Instructional coaches in Fairfax County go back to work the end of July.  I won’t be. 

Starting October 1, I’m going to be a language and cultural assistant in a high school. 

In Spain.  Malaga, Spain.  Well, Velez-Malaga if you want to get really specific.  

Empty living room...

In case you were wondering, Velez is in the Andalusia region of Spain (the southern part), is one of the traditional ‘white cities,’ and is about ten miles off the beach of the Costa del Sol, but not a super touristy area.  In pictures of the city, when you see water, it’s the Mediterranean Sea.  (Side note—if you’re curious about any of the logistics of how I’m pulling this off/how nervous you need to be about this decision, you can read the companion piece to this.)  Come visit.  For real. 

I’m planning to make this blog a travel adventure touch-base over the next year.  If I tell enough people about it, it’ll keep me accountable.  I’m going to post pictures.  And make everyone jealous about this adventure. 

It’s a big deal.  And it’s also something I’ve been considering for a year and actively working to achieve since January.  I cried when I told my principal. I thought I was going to throw up when I told my program coordinator. I worried I was letting people down or leaving people in the lurch or making people disappointed or angry or lonely. 

But I still did it.  I don’t actively choose to not do things I want in order to make other people happy.  But this is one of the first times I actively didn’t care as much about anyone else as about myself.  That sounds, and feels selfish—but this decision is also one of the healthiest decisions I could make.  If I can be incredibly vulnerable for a minute, let me say that other people around me, who I love dearly, are having traditional 30-something adventures—marriage, kids, promotions, in-laws.  And the technically lateral career move/promotion I got wasn’t enough to carry the day for me. I’m not having the traditional adventure and that’s okay (okay, it’s only sometimes okay, but that’s a totally different story), but it means I can be open to other adventures.  

And this past year, it meant I needed another adventure. 

It's strangely empty without pictures on the shelves.

I’ve never been to Europe.  I’ve only used my passport to visit various Caribbean countries.  I want to see castles. I want to eat actual Italian pasta. I want to hear everyone around me speaking in an accent that is charming and sexy.  As I lay on my living room floor—because legit, I have zero furniture in my living room—the desires, the ache, for these adventures is what’s making me feel excited rather than sad. 

I’ve been blessed by incredible people in my life.  Without fail, everyone I’ve talked to has been excited for me and unbelievably supportive.  The funny thing is that many people have also made some sort of comment about how they couldn’t do this, or wouldn’t be brave enough, or someday they would let go of the fear enough to do something like this.  It’s funny to me because that seems to imply that I’m not terrified.  

Let me be clear.  I’m terrified. 

When I talk about it—I’m totally calm and great and excited.  I’ve been giving away/selling things/packing like I’ll get a prize for efficiency.  I’ve made lists of what to do, sometimes for the pure pleasure of checking the box when I finish.  Especially when I sit down with a book and some coffee (or wine, depending on the time of day), I can convince myself I’m totally calm about this. 

But I’ve been obsessively comfort-watching DVR’d UNC games since I’ll give the DVR back to Fios tomorrow and lose the 2017 Championship run.  I’m not kidding.  The Elite 8 Kentucky game is playing in the background, one last time. 

A few nights ago, I woke up at 3 in the morning.  This is not terribly odd lately.  I also woke up with both of my middle fingers sore.  This also has not been terribly odd.  I’ve noticed this soreness almost every time I’ve woken up in the middle of the night.  They never hurt during the day, so I’ve usually forgotten about it by the time I’m not fuzzy with sleep.  But for some reason, that night, I was positive that both of my middle fingers being sore meant I was developing a terrible disease. Yup, it’s true.  At three in the morning, I was sure this could only be an early symptom of an ailment I (clearly) know little about, but could not be more terrified of.  The path to get there made sense at the time, but basically ended with debilitation for the rest of my life.  This trip to Spain would be my last hurrah.  

I fell back asleep, but was aware enough to realize this was probably only a middle of the night fear.

Untrue. I woke up at seven, just as convinced and just as preoccupied with this diagnosis.  I allowed myself a quick Google search.  Even WebMD did not list this as a potential sign of anything more serious than arthritis.  Which opened enough space in my brain to realize this was not the only time my hands had ever felt like this. 

A few months ago, an old roommate and I had done aerial yoga/circus training classes.  She was much better at it than I was, primarily because the entire first class had me too afraid to actually let go of the silks. I was gripping that fabric like my life depended on it.  It didn’t matter that I was inches above the floor.  I couldn’t let go.  And my hands were sore for days.  My middle fingers were sore for over a week.  

This is Velez-Malaga.

It was not joint stiffness I was feeling in the middle of the night.  It was muscle pain. Apparently, I’ve been clenching my fists tightly in my sleep.  Tightly enough that it causes muscle soreness at night, which dissipates by day when I realize what I’m doing. 

Is it clear—this is huge, and terrifying, and stressful, activating my anxiety in a very real way?  And it’s 100% worth it.  I would’t back out now if I could. Part of what I wanted out of this adventure was to go outside of my comfort zone.  To not be quite so close to a safety net.  Not because I’m some sort of masochist, but because I know growth happens mostly outside of our comfort zones.  Travel grows you, changes you, and it’s working on me even as I sit on my living room floor. 

I could quote a lot of cheesy things about courage and fear, the kind of thing you hear in The Princess Diaries for instance.  Instead, what’s been ringing most true for me is a set of lyrics—do you know Bethel Music? (I’m obsessed—their worship songs are unparalleled.) They have a song where the chorus says, “Take courage, my heart, stay steadfast my soul, He’s in the waiting.  He’s in the waiting.  Hold on to your hope as your triumph unfolds, He’s never failing.  He’s never failing.  And You, who hold the stars, who call them each by name, will surely keep Your promise to me, that I will rise in your victory.” 

I’m trying to take courage, loosen my hands, and live in the promise—because alone it’s just scary.  But, the scary can maybe help me grow into the woman I was intended to be. 

On Finishing that First Novel

I thought after finishing the first draft of a novel that I had been planning for more than ten years and writing for more than one year that I would feel relieved. I thought I would only feel a sense of accomplishment.  Actually, I thought I would feel a huge sense of accomplishment, as though I had just finished something I’d been working towards in some way for most of my adult life.

That first night, I did, at least a little bit.

But ever since then, all the nights and afternoons and early mornings I haven’t been working on it? I’ve felt...lonely.  

It took me a few days to figure it out. This new lonliness wasn’t about being around actual physical people or conversation or getting out of the house.

It was about the fact that for some amount of time--sometimes hours at a time--for the past 165 days, I’ve been spending part of my time in a different world entirely.  I’ve been with Rachel and John and Sarah and Brandon (and even now, just typing their names feels comforting), and I don’t talk about what happens in that world with anyone else, but I know exactly what those characters are feeling and why they’re doing what they’re doing.  When I was falling asleep at night, I would plot out what they would do next. When I was in the shower I would (very occasionally) try out the dialogue I thought they might use. In some way, I almost felt I had a duty to them, to get them out of the tangle they were in (since I had put them there after all) and get them to a better place.  (Around the holidays, I told my brother I had been promising my main character I would get her home for the past week and he dryly quipped, “Doesn’t she have a car?” I didn’t even know how to respond.)

I have absolutely no idea if this is how aspiring other authors deal with their writing or not.  I was listening to Jonathan Franzen talk about how frustrating it is when people talk about characters showing the author where they want to go.  Certainly, I knew before I started writing what was going to happen in the end, in a very broad sense, but it was only when I mentally entered the world of my characters and played around with different scenarios, different conversations, different twists that some of it felt authentic to the story, to their world.  So in a small sense, it seemed they were showing me where to go and what to do.

And then, last week, I cut myself off from all of this.  I promised myself thirty days away from it. Partly because I wanted a break, but mostly because I still have a duty to Rachel, my narrator, and all the people who orbit around her in this story.  These characters had, unintentionally, become (in a completely mentally stable way) like friends. And to be absolutely real, there huge chunks of this story that is absolute crap. That has be cut away.  As good as it was for me to discipline myself to write everyday, there are entire days that can be utterly stripped away because I wrote to get it done, not because what I typed did anything for the story.

More importantly, an entire chunk of the novel, what some might mistakenly see at first as the major driving plot line (by some, read me, when I started out), needs to be ripped to shreds and stitched back together into something far more relevant and important (luckily, I already know what that is).  And to tear it apart the way it needs to be torn, I can’t carry sentimental attachment into the revision, but only the cool-minded skill a surgeon would bring. If there’s any hope of anyone else ever reading this story, I need to make several portions far, far harder on characters I’ve lovingly crafted.

I needed to set aside so I could gain some distance and approach it, not as a Mama Bird who desperately wants her baby to fly, but as a critic, willing to slice away the fat slowing the whole lumbering dodo down.  (I have no idea if dodo lumbered. Imagine a really super fat one.)

Thirty days was what I said I’d take.  That’s May 15th if you’re keeping track.  I hope I’ve stopped missing them by then. I hope I feel annoyed that’s it’s time to go back to Rachel and her story.  I want to live up to the obligation I feel, and I hope by May 15th I feel it not to Rachel or John or even myself, but to the story that’s buried deep down in the midst of all the extra words, waiting to be told.   

So Guys...I'm Not a Teacher Anymore

Teaching days

This post is a little late.  About six months late actually.   Because that’s almost how long it’s been that I could type this and have it be truthful: I’m not a teacher.  Eeeh, that’s sort of hard to write even though it’s true.  It shouldn’t be hard because I transitioned to a different job November 28th--that date is sort of burned in my brain--and that was almost six months ago.  It shouldn’t be that hard either because I do still work at the same school I’ve been working at for the past three and a half years.  

But it is hard still.  I moved down the hall and around the corner into an office that is much larger than it needs to be considering I’m not actually responsible for directly educating specific students anymore.

When we came back from Thanksgiving break on November 28th, I became the Instructional Coach at Sandburg.  A chain of events had begun just before school started in August that led to my friend who was our Instructional Coach when the school year started to become our Assistant Principal, and left a position open.  

It wasn’t a position I had been coveting, it wasn’t something I had really ever even thought about before, but suddenly I was being asked to apply for a position that would take me out of the classroom and further away from my students.  

That was the hard part.  Being further away from my kids who were as much a part of me and my day as cooking or sleeping or reading.  

I spent a good long time considering if it was possible to leave my kiddos.  I spent a long time considering if there was anything I could possibly do to help the school that would justify leaving the kiddos.  I wondered how I would be at this job.  I wondered if I would like it.  

I could’ve stayed there wondering for a long time.  I asked friends and colleagues for advice, and the piece of advice that stuck with me was the idea that it was simply an opportunity, and not something to walk away from.  A door had opened, and I may find that on the other side was something I didn’t necessarily love, but that would still be valuable knowledge, both personally and professionally, that would help me understand my own self and my own future.

So, I walked through it.

Walked through the door that took me from teacher to coach, though I admit that when I meet someone casually, who I won’t be likely to interact with ever again--the girl doing my nails, the man giving my car an oil change--I still just tell them I’m a teacher.  

It’s not that I’m ashamed or unwilling to talk about it or regretful.  It’s that there are a decent amount of people in my building that aren’t sure what an Instructional Coach does, so I don’t expect people who aren’t in the education field to have much of an idea of what that means.

What is does mean is that I still care deeply about the students in my building and what they’re learning, but instead of just teaching a handful of them myself, I work with as many teachers as I have time for who will have me. I try to help move people forward, try to expand their capacity, and their thinking.  I try to help them see the abilities that are already within them or give them additional tools in their toolbox depending upon the person.  

It means right now that I pull the scores for our standardized test scores and pray the numbers are what they need to be.  

What it has meant for me personally is that I’ve gotten to see a ton of different teaching--I had never imagined the vast range of things people are doing within my school.

I do like it.  I actually like my job a lot.

I think I might be starting to be okay at it.  It’s been a hard journey, accepting the idea of not being great at something new right away, especially when it’s meant walking away from something I think I was pretty damn good at. I think given some time, I might be good at it.  We’ll see.

Leaving the classroom behind is tough.

I’m happy, and grateful, that there are several students who continue to be mine despite transitioning to a new role.  The boys I had last year as seventh graders, and who began the year as my eighth graders were the ones I never worried about.  As I told several people, they would find me no matter where I went in the school.  But it warms my heart to the fullest level that my assumption was correct.  They come every morning before class.  They come during lunch as often as I’ll let them.  And a few show their faces for snacks sometimes in between.  They come when they get kicked out, or when they’re bored, or when they think of an excuse their teachers will sign a pass for.  They come saying, “Ms. Short, I need to talk to you,” and every time I hope it will be something I can help them with.  My favorite is the time two needed to talk to me about one starting to date a girl their other friend also liked and not knowing how to tell him about the relationship.  Not because I enjoy adolescent drama, but because so often these boys face terrible, grown-up problems I can’t help them with.  I’m slightly addicted to seeing them act like average middle school kids.

The problem will be next year as I truly know one seventh grader and know only the names of a few others.  Will I still like this job then when I don’t have kiddos who count on me, when I’m not sure I’ve made anyone’s world directly better?  Only time will tell I suppose. I’m not sure.

No matter what, I am glad I’ve walked through this door.  I’m not positive I know what on the other side of it, not fully.  I do know, that administration is not the next step for me.  My colleague’s transition from coach to assistant principal has made many think that’s my next move as well.  Spoiler alert: it’s not. Not only do I have no desire to do it, I also don’t have the qualifications.  Maybe someday I will (I really wouldn’t hold your breath though), but not today.

Other spoiler alert--I can’t go back to California, not to teach with CTY for three weeks anymore.  My new position isn’t technically a promotion, but it is an 11 month contract.  Which doesn’t leave time for three weeks of jaunting out to the West Coast.  That’s the other part I’ll miss.

But, I see ideas for change--good, strong, positive, hard change in my school and I want to be a part of them.  And I think that my current position would let me do that. And if, after a few years, I think I don’t think does anymore, or I moved away to a place that doesn’t have a coaching program, I would be pretty content to be back in a classroom again.

But until that day comes, I’m going to soak in as many chances to hear, “Ms. Short, I need to talk to you,” where the speaker has full faith in my ability to make things even slightly better.  And hope that eventually it will not only be teenagers, but adults coming to me for help.  

And hope even more that I can deliver.

Females Are Strong as Hell

I didn’t go to the March on Washington today, and my reasons were purely selfish.  The idea of getting on the Metro with the tens of thousands--hundreds of thousands of women--who were also heading into the Mall made me feel claustrophobic and sick and antsy just thinking about it.  But I was going to swallow all that when my sister-in-law was going to come down and go with me, though when her family suffered a loss, I didn’t seek out anyone else.  And I knew, even before I saw the photos from today, there were other people I could’ve gone in with--I told you, it was selfish that I didn’t go.

It wasn’t that I didn’t agree with the platform that these women were, are, supporting.  I agree with probably about 95% of what they were marching to bring awareness to, the rights they were looking to defend.  (And let me tell you, I’ve come to realize in the last almost six years of living here--if you agree with even 55% of the message someone in this town is pushing, you should grab on with both hands and refuse to let go.)   

It made me feel like a lousy feminist that I didn’t go downtown today.  Sisters, I am with you.  I am so proud of how many women stormed our nation’s capital today and refused to be silenced, refused to be ignored, refused to be marginalized.  I am overwhelmed, because I know that for every woman that walked today, there are probably two or three (or many more) women behind them, supporting them and cheering them on, just like me.

Here is what I know.  We have put a man into a position of incredible power who has said things which minimize violence, struggles, and assaults against women.  

He has offered up blanket statements about whole groups of people which are not accurate, educated, or reasonable.   

He has made insinuations which lead me to believe he doesn’t understand sexual assault--neither the definition nor the all to frequent reality for too many women across the country.

So, today across the world, women raised their voices.  

I did not march today, but I am raising mine now.

A few days ago, I was talking to some teenage boys who, for whatever reason, have made me their person at school.  They are often misunderstood, often get frustrated, and come from difficult countries, difficult homes.  And they have been rude lately to an adult at work who has been making very legitimate requests of them.

In the middle of the week, I kept telling them, they had to be polite to this particular woman.  “Why?” one of them asked me.

“Because she’s a person,” I said, exasperated.  It wasn’t a cop out. It was what I truly believe.  It is yet another thing I know--that simply being a person demands dignity, and a degree of politeness and respect.

It is totally unnecessary to like everyone.  To be friends with everyone.  To agree with everyone.  Jesus, protect us from blindly agreeing with anyone simply to keep the peace.

That is what I know. I also know a few other things, though you might call them beliefs.  I know that God was not surprised by what happened in November. I know that He has not turned His back on us.  And I know that in the midst of darkness, of confusion, of chaos, He call us to turn to the light of love.

He calls us to love our sisters and brothers.  To distinguish ourselves by our ability to love others.

To realize that people, even when they’re the modern day equivalent of lepers or tax collectors, deserve not only a meal, but a place with the King.

We move out of what I know, though I don’t lose a lot of confidence in my guesses.  

I can guess that today will not be my only opportunity over the next four years to speak out for rights, dignity, and strength of people who have been demeaned.

I can guess that loving each other, showing support for one another, and banding together as people who stand for humanity--in all sort of different ways--will be the only thing that keeps us together.

Today offered proof of something I’ve known for quite some time.  It’s something most of the world will freely admit after seeing the show of strength and unity we put on. I do not know, cannot guess, can only hope about how our new President will see it.   Let him admit--even if only to himself, in the secret places of his heart--what we know to be true:  Females Are Strong as Hell.

Why I Decided to Give Back My Dog

That title makes me cringe. I didn’t expect to write that sentence a week after adopting Albie. I especially didn’t expect to write it considering he is a great dog.  This whole thing might’ve been easier if he’d been an anxious dog, a problem dog, if he’d been leaving me presents all through the house or chewing things to bits.  Instead, I adopted a low energy dog who loves to sleep most of the time, occasionally play, who could stay at home more than ten hours without having an accident and who loved me to bits when I got home.  He is a really phenomenal dog.  The problem is that I wasn’t good at owning a dog.  The reason I gave him back is all on me.

I know.  He's the cutest. 

I knew all the facts—in theory. I knew owning a dog would mean a huge life change and that I would have to take own an awful lot more responsibility.  I knew it would take some getting used to and that there would be things a dog would do which I wouldn’t love at first. 
But there was more to it than that.  I didn’t think about the fact that it would mean I was never alone.  Never.  That the solitude that I’ve come to cherish in my house would be gone—even when he was sleeping quietly and peacefully on the ottoman, he was there. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d set my life up to pour into people all day at work, to relax and spend quality time with people I love outside of work, and then to come home to a quiet sanctuary.  And I absolutely love that balance right now.  Yes, I loved that he was so excited to have me come home and that he simply wanted to love on me. But I wondered when I got to just relax. 
I abhor selfishness.  It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.  And I know this is absolutely a selfish decision, to only want to have to worry about me.  But, it’s only been in the past year or two that I’ve come to realize that there are advantages to being single. It’s not where I’d planned to be right now, it’s not where I want to be long-term.  But there are definite advantages to not worrying about anyone else’s schedule or preferences when I make decisions about how to spend my time.  Even though people have maybe told me this for quite awhile, I’ve only actually embraced it recently, and while I could give it up, I selfishly don’t want to, not for Albie. Because even though I loved him from the beginning, I came to realize loving him would change the way I had time to love other people and was making my inner introvert scream out for time alone.
 

Yup, he slept like the sweetest boy.

I know a week isn’t much time. I know that eventually I probably could’ve gotten used to him being here and the life change it would mean.  I know there wasn’t a choice between one good and one bad decision. I had a choice between two hard decisions: continue to love this dog but not love being a dog owner or give back this dog I loved to get my life back. 
I know that’s hard for my dog lover friends and family to hear. (Please don’t hate me guys.  One reason I almost kept him was because I didn’t want to disappoint all of you.)  I’ve heard quite a few people talk about how owning their dog has been a transformative experience, how must they’ve absolutely adored it and how wonderful it’s been.  And I believe them.  And I don’t mean to say there weren’t moments that I loved.  The morning routine Albie and I developed of sitting together on my big chair, his head in my lap, while I did my devotions were the sweetest moments.  But in this moment, it wasn’t enough. 
I don’t think dog ownership is totally out for me forever.  There are situations where I could see it working far better.  If I had a partner in doggie parenthood who could take some of the responsibility or if I had a huge yard—okay, any size yard, or didn’t live in an area where there’s no such thing as a quick trip with no traffic, I could see it working out really well.  But none of those ‘ifs’ are true right now.

He is a snuggle buddy.

I could have done it. I know that.  If there had been some reason that I had to keep Albie, I could’ve.  If he’d been the pet of a dear relative or friend who needed him to live out his days with me, I could’ve done it.  If I had thought I was condemning him to a terrible life or something even worse, I could’ve done it.  But that wasn’t the case.  Lost Dog Rescue (https://lostdogrescue.org)  is actually a pretty phenomenal organization. They have a two week period where you can do exactly what I did—figure out if this is the right thing for you—and bring your dog back, no judgment.  They have a Ranch where Albie was living before (which he got to right back to unless he got adopted right after I dropped him off) where he can run outside, lay on a doggie couch in comfort, and sleep in his own individual crate at night.  Albie is a great dog and I hope very much that he gets adopted very soon by his forever family.  But even if he doesn’t, I know that he will have a great life because of Lost Dog, and for that I am tremendously grateful.

I wasn't kidding.  I was crying
in my car after saying bye.

It’s not a choice I made lightly.  I can’t really tell you very much about what I did this week, save for talk to people about Albie, cry about Albie, think about what to do about Albie, and cry about giving Albie back.   We spent today curled up on the chair after he got me up at 5:40 for a walk where he neither peed nor pooped.  I teared up when I realized it was time to take him, 
I started to cry to the people who took him back from me at Pet Smart, and I just let myself be sad as I sat crying in the car minus Albie. I’m biting back tears writing this right now.  And partly I’m writing this because I don’t really want you to ask me about how he’s doing or why I gave him back because the question isn’t if I’ll cry, but how much.  (And if you are one of those people who have texted to ask me about him and I haven’t responded, this is why—I just couldn’t.)
But in spite of the overwhelming emotion that this has all caused, underneath it all, underneath the sadness of not having this little furry thing who loves me best, I have a pretty deep peace.  A peace that is helping me realize that although this was a really hard choice, it wasn’t the wrong choice. 

Hard Isn't Necessarily Wrong

A few years ago, I was annoyed at a friend about something kind of stupid and when I explained the situation to my friend Katie, what she told me gave me great perspective and was exactly what I needed to hear.  She told me, yes the situation had become sucky for me, but it was probably exactly what I would’ve done in the same situation and didn’t make it wrong.  That something could simultaneously be both sucky for me and the right decision was not exactly something I naturally put together, but it was exactly what I needed to hear and try to understand in that moment.

This week, her words come back to me as something I needed to hear yet again.  After almost two years, and four auditions, I’m not on the worship team at church anymore.  That’s really hard to say because it hurts deeply and makes me very sad. It’s why I haven’t really told anybody about it, haven’t brought it up, haven’t wanted to talk about it.  It makes me sad that I’ve lost a community that has meant more than I can actually explain. It makes me sad that I don’t get to be a part of a team that is moving forward into something great.  It’s really hard that after years of sometimes crippling anxiety with being in the front of a church and singing, I’ve finally moved to a place of comfort, only to have that place taken from me. It’s painful that something that has connected me with church since almost before I can remember, since I sat up at the organ with Aunt Sue after she finished playing Sunday service, isn’t an option for me now. 

And the natural human part of me wants to be angry about it, to blame the new leadership, to say that they didn’t know what they were doing, that it’s not fair, and that I wouldn’t want to be a part of something that doesn’t want me and would treat me so shabbily.  None of those things would be true. 

Just because it’s hard for me, painful for me, sucky for me, it doesn't necessarily mean that I get to say angry, frustrated, reactionary things about the leadership, their decision, or what’s going on as the team changes.  It doesn’t necessarily make it wrong that I’m not on the team anymore.  I’m excited to be a part of a church that is growing and moving forward with the worship—I just thought I would get to be a part of that growth in a different way. 

But I do wonder, what is my response? I’ve learned a few things about my self in the past few years, and one of them is, I’m pretty solution oriented.  Give me a problem and I want to find a solution for it.  So if not making it on the worship team is the problem, then the obvious solutions are before me—complain bitterly and allow a wedge to be driven—this would be based on a lie, but this would be the easiest thing for me.    The next easiest would be to place this on myself—to take on the identify that I’m not good enough, that I was cut, that I was not worthy, not appreciated, and that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. 

It’s actually harder for me to put that one down.  It may have something to do with the fundamental evaluation that is inherent in auditions, and being turned down is fundamentally evaluative.  But it’s not that I’m not good enough.  It’s that my voice is not where it would need to be for this team to move forward.  And since music has been a part of me since before I can remember, that’s also pretty hard to hear, but it doesn’t quite strike me to my core.  And it has the advantage of being true. 

So that leaves me with a few other options.  One is to re-audition in the fall as I was invited to do.  But considering the feedback I was given and the things that would need to happen, I can already feel that music, which has always been a simple joy for me, would become work.  And I don’t know that I wouldn’t always feel like a second class citizen, always worried that my voice would again slip below the line of acceptable.  Neither of those things seem terribly desirable.

So one option remains, and that’s to simply and peacefully walk away from being a part of the worship team. The Christian in me who’s well-read in such matters knows that I should say that i’m excited to see what God has in store for me next and knows that my future at DC Metro Church holds something great.  But I’m not quite ready to say that yet.  I’m not quite ready to jump into serving on another team to cover up the hurt.  I’m not quite ready to think about where else I want to serve.  Kids might be a natural choice, since I know they need help and I know I’m good with kids.  But I also know that my kiddos take a lot out of me all day and I don’t know that I have enough left over to give something good on Sunday mornings.  I’ve never not been a part of one of those two ministries, and I’m not sure exactly where else I fit. 

So I’m going to take the next month to sometimes feel sad about it—not to wallow in it, but to accept it—and I’m going to go to Pennsylvania and Oregon and California and when I come back in August, maybe then I’ll be ready to say and do those things and mean them truthfully.  And when I do maybe it will be a little less sucky and a little less hard and hurt a little less.  But even if it doesn’t quite feel good yet, it doesn’t necessarily make what’s happening wrong. 

Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus. Always Atticus

Some things I’ve learned from reading To Kill a Mockingbird aloud to my classes (four times ever day):

There’s something powerful in reading aloud.  I’ve always loved people reading stories to me, especially Christmas books that my mom would read to us as children.  And I’ve always loved reading books aloud.  One of my goals before I turn 32 is to somehow look into or audition for reading an audio book, simply because that sounds, quite literally, like my most ideal job. 

But besides all of that, there is some sort of power in reading Atticus’s words aloud.  In bringing Boo to life that way, in creating the aura of shadow around him in the beginning of the story, only to bring clarity to him at the end.

In reading this four times over every day, I’ve come to realize that the third time is really where I hit my stride.  The first is pretty good, the second almost there, but by the third pass through, I can hit all the inflections just right and I can anticipate the questions before they come.  By the fourth, I’m a little into autopilot.  But third is my sweet spot. 

I was prepared for my students to not really enjoy or appreciate this book.  I told myself before I started teaching it that it would be okay if they didn’t think it was amazing.  After all, I read it for the first time in tenth grade and while I loved it, it was only when I re-read it at 25 that I really adored it.  When I would’ve counted it one of my favorite books.  So if they couldn’t really get it at 12, that would be okay. 

I wasn’t prepared for them to feel so invested and involved so quickly.  Every day they come in and ask excitedly, “Are we going to read today?”

Granted, they don’t really see the whole picture sometimes: i.e. they think the title is going to be because Atticus shot a mockingbird when he was young and it’s haunted him all these years and that’s why he stopped shooting things.  Also, some of them are convinced that Calpurnia and Atticus are going to end up together. Sure guys, this is a town where a white man can, without any evidence, accuse a black man of rape and have him convicted, but a white man and a black woman will get married, no problem.  

But they’re loving it. And I’m loving how much they’re loving it.

In what might be the strangest comparison yet, I’ve realized there’s a moment for me in books that I love.  I call it The Silver Doe moment, because I first became aware of it in reading and re-reading and listening and re-listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  Now, for some reason that chapter where Harry and Hermoinie are camping and the silver doe patronus appears is one of my favorite moments in the whole series.  Certainly the Final Battle, the last 200 pages or so trump it in the way that only an epic climax to a classic hero story can.  The scene with Harry and Dumbledore is just too good for words.  But as a non-highest-point-in-4000-pages way, The Silver Doe is the shit.   I can’t explain it, I can’t say that anyone else necessarily feels the same, but for me, there’s something transcendent about that chapter, something that pulls on the very deepest heartstrings the way that only the best books do. 

I was reading aloud last week and I suddenly knew—my Silver Doe moment in To Kill a Mockingbird is when Atticus shoots the rabid dog.  Other details, especially of the beginning, fade away, but that chapter I remember with absolute clarity.  There’s something about that scene when Atticus, who up to this point is interesting because he allows his kids to call him by his first name, and who is otherwise notable for  He is not just an attorney, but a remarkable marksman who gave that up.  He has power that he lays aside, but is willing to pick it up again for the sake of his children and his town.  It’s a defining moment.

his deep river of tolerance and wisdom, becomes much more multi-faceted and slightly mysterious.

(On a side note, it’s moments like that which make stories worth reading, which give them their almost mystical power.  It’s moments like that which allow us to see a little further into the human condition that we ever could without sharing a story, and it’s moments like that which make the truth of the story the ultimate goal in reading.  It’s also why, when several years ago, some people tried to convince me that there were some books which were “unclean” and therefore inappropriate, that I felt it as an almost physical attack.  It’s why I still carry that year of teaching around, even four years later.)

But to continue the Harry Potter comparison, the real epic Final Battle is coming in To Kill a Mockingbird.  And in the same way that hearing Harry offer Voldemort forgiveness and a last chance at repentance in the end, strikes the most perfect chord within me, I cannot wait to be able to read the line where Scout makes us understand why the book is called To Kill a Mockingbird.  To come to that moment where the final piece of the puzzle lines up perfectly and things fall into place, and to share that with students.  All 120 of them.  I can’t even explain how excited I am.