And it all begins again...

It's nearly nine o'clock as I write this, definitely past Suzannah's bedtime. She's in bed, but she's not sleeping, nor does she seem remotely interested in sleeping. Tonight, she's just talking, talking talking talking, rattling off every word she's ever learned, punctuating her stream-of-consciousness chatter with "Okay!" every now and then. Matt and I are trying to follow what in the hee-haw she might be talking about, but I think she really just likes to play with words. She's my daughter, after all.

I've been quiet here lately, due to the frenetic beginning of another school year and a very fast trip to Montana over the weekend for my grandfather's funeral, but things are settling down and I'm finding my groove again.

I was flipping through old journal entries, and I found this:

I feel good tonight and I've felt remarkably calm this weekend. I'm noticing a pattern, now that I am about to begin my fourth year of teaching. Something happens the weekend before the kids arrive. I stop panicking long enough to trust that everything will be okay, that everything will just happen. And even on a deeper level, that the universe is actually pretty kind. It's a vague and unspecific but completely comforting feeling. I felt it enter with my breathe last night as I walked across the parking lot after my workout, this generic "everything will be okay" feeling. I remember writing something similar in my journal three years ago, when I had every reason in the world to be terrified -- living in a new state, a new city, beginning a new job and wondering if I had what it takes to do it well. I've had it every year since then. I don't know what it is, but every year, on the weekend before school officially starts and my kids arrive and I find myself hurtling into the incredible momentum of teaching teenagers again, I somehow, miraculously, remember to breathe. And trust. And believe. These moments are the whispers that keep me moving and believing.

What's interesting is that the shape of my life is so different now, but that feeling, that golden September optimism, is still there. I suppose it's a sign that right now I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be.

Raise your hand if you can believe that this is my eighth year of teaching English. I know. Also, I meant it when I said I wasn't going to write about school on this too-public blog; the stories I tell are really too juicy and dangerous for that. You're just going to have to buy my book.