Empty Classroom

There are so many calendars by which we humans measure the passing of time.  In our western culture, we measure the year from January to December and think that is THE calendar.  But of course it isn't.  There are calendars that mark the passing of fiscal matters, and they start and end quite often in months not designated by our traditional Gregorian calendar.  There are, for those of us who work and live in the U.S., the tax year, and that calendar has its own peculiarities.  Too, our multi-cultural society includes those who may mark the flight of days and years by calendars based on the cycles of the moon rather than the sun, and so their days and weeks and years are "other" than what is the norm for the majority.  However that all plays out, there are those of us who live lives centered around schools and teaching, and whatever the rest of the world believes about the date, our calendars begin and end each year with empty classrooms. 

The empty classroom that is mine at the end of August is a space filled with anticipation.  It lies quiet but vibrant, awaiting only the arrival of the children who will fill it up with lively curiosity and joyful growing.  Throughout the year, as we move from month to month and topic to topic, there are days (I'll confess) when my classroom seems full to overflowing -- full of bodies growing into adolescence; full of projects and posters and the things that a gaggle of youngsters bring with them into their daily lives; full of desks and chairs and backpacks and coats -- and the ever present litter of papers and crayons and erasers and whatnot.  We work in that busy and crowded space, sharing the work and the triumphs, crying and laughing together, building and shaping a small community inside those walls.  The days can fly by sometimes, and then there are the weeks that seem to never end.  Still, springtime arrives, exactly as promised, and we run out of days together -- work that is well done, and work that remains unfinished or barely begun; it matters not.  The school year ends, and the children pack their bags, and troop off amidst ringing goodbyes and tearful hugs and promises to meet again in the fall...  And I am left, always on this day, with soft memories, and a deep and aching tiredness -- standing in the middle of my suddenly too quiet and far too empty classroom. 

It is a blur.  When it is all over; when everything is packed away, or draped in dust covers; when the last paper has been handed out and the report cards are distributed; when all the work is done -- then, I am left feeling jubilant but empty, without energy, muddled and befuddled, at a loss for what to do next. 

Mixed up in this time of the year however, is the anniversary date of my move to be here with Master and with T.  Eight years ago, on June 6th, I pulled our pickup truck into the parking lot at the apartment complex where we would live for the first few months of our time in Cincinnati.  It was the culmination of a 21 hour, straight-through without stopping drive across the breadth of the continent -- and it came immediately on the heels of another school year ending in another school far from here.

I never seem to remember the date -- was it the 6th or was it the 8th?  Master and T keep track of it, and I come fuzzily and in a physical/mental/emotional fog to the celebrative moments surrounding that mile marker on our path.  I do rejoice in the fact of that long ago journey, and I do absolutely love the fact of our lives together, but I can't muster much enthusiasm or excitement.  I've use all of that up cheering up and cheering on the young ones given into my care.  As of today, they are launched and it is my sincere hope that the universe is good to them through these warm months of summer.  I know that in a very little bit of time, I'll be back in that same empty classroom working to create the buzz and anticipation that will bring me a brand new group in the fall...

For now, I have a cold Harp Lager and a quiet house.  There are a gazillion things for me to do around this house we share, but there will be time for all of that.  Tonight I have no papers to grade and no lessons to plan and not a single email from a student or a parent wondering about whatever it is that we are doing. 

So my year ends.  So the new year begins.  Right here where eight years ago, I took my first steps into this life I chose.

swan