titles change things

working on poems with my 9th graders, and just finished a poetry unit with my 10th graders, we've moved onto a Jason Reynolds book and i am finding the rhythm of back in the building, in a new system (quarters) where I must work hard to build relationships and pack content into 9 weeks.  it's challenging, and i appreciate challenge, but this year it almost seems like too much to do anything more than teach my classes.  the work life balance has shifted since COVID, and i want to be more present at home, especially as winter melts into spring (maybe sometime, right now we're covered under a fresh 6 inches).  by the time i get home from work, i have used all of my patience.  i feel anxious.  i want a clean, quiet space to help with my anxiety, and my home is the opposite.  i don't know when i will ever get used to a maladjustment of my spirit, but i do know that titles change things.  we wear the mask in our buildings, and we read dunbar, angelou's riff of dunbar and deonte osayande as we asked ourselves which masks we wear.  here's the mask i wear: 

at this point, 
i have become 
used to wearing
the villain mask.
I, terrorist of the
living room kingdom.

i am tired of the mess:
your worst storms, 
amplified by years of
desert island isolation.
i am under a spell 
of exhaustion. 
tempered and tan-toned,
i have become 
exactly what i said
i wouldn't.

i don't know how to unsee
the mountains, how to let 
the molehills slide,
how to stay quiet like breath
when you thunder-rumble.
i am tired of asking, 
and getting silence
in return.  you are tired
of talking, and i am a griot.

i turn off myself 
like a light switch.
taking rest and searching
for what i need in
wild dreams of turquoise
water on our skin. 
i have to be the hero
of my own life, even
if i'm always the villain
of yours. 

titles change things: 

(mom poem #893453495)

joy and rest

well, to answer my last post, yes, i do know how to rest.  but i have turned a corner and fallen from a steep cliff, my body needs the rest so much that i cannot climb out of bed.  it has been a winter where i've consciously been focusing on joy and rest, but it seems that the joy is centrally located in my classroom, and the rest happens at home.  to be clearer, i beeline from the front door to my "home clothes" to my bed.  this hibernation is normal for me every year, but it is not yet normal to my kids, and it's to a deeper degree than in previous years. 

i am trying to create spaces for joy and quiet during the winter, as a part of our practice.  we slow down, we read, we create, we connect, we gain inspiration from the stars, we are cozy, we sleep.  this is the counterclaim to their vibrancy, and they're not sure what to do with all this gray.  i promise i will get my color back, in the spring and summer. 

the winter is an important time to rest, and yet i've been struggling with the guilt around it.  i should be doing more, i should be cleaning this, organizing that, showing up at this event.  i am so, so tired, though, and i am struggling to hold space for the grief that has taken over my body.  i just need to be here with her, and let her wreak havoc.  we must break open to heal, and must trust that rest is what we really need. 

thank you for being with me as i break open, and fold over, and hunker down in the snow.  spring will come.  in the meantime, joy in the everyday and allowing the rest my bones need.