It seems I may finally have a job--beginning in the fall. Most of the jobs I've ever landed have started in autumn. Perhaps it is because I come from a county that is famous for it's late-year colors. From the orange of pumpkins still in the fields, to azure skies and fiery foliage, New England is the poster child of this coming season. Even the sea takes on a particular green, more moldavite or tourmaline than emerald. These raging hues still spin my brain, no matter where I find myself in September. The result is a restlessness and a focus that seems to manifest in finally beginning new chapters of my life. Often, that has meant a new job. So, too, after a hiatus of these many months, I believe the journey will once again lift off. (Please and thank-you Great Spirit. Amen.)
Of course, realizing this, I tore into my "seven boxes". (All that remains of my past life in California...). What might be utilized? Which books? Any posters? Any art supplies? (Do I still have "professional shoes", or clothes that mark me as more than just a passing "sub" in the lives of students?) What haven't I already cannibalized?
When I first arrived, nothing I owned was appropriate for winter. As no one in my family is the same size nor shape (let alone having similar tastes), I was relegated to thrift stores and holiday sweaters no one would wear. Luckily, my taste for leather blazers allowed a rolling wardrobe for the sparse substitute jobs I landed. (I had stuffed five of them into one of the seven boxes, unwilling to leave those hard-earned items on the West Coast.) I'm sure I resembled some sort of outlander: leather and turtlenecks one day, the next with a reindeer and Santa sweater. Any "extra dough" I earned usually went into the rusting Subaru or shoes. (Still haven't mastered my "sneaker jones"...)
My family and friends were kind these last twenty-plus months. I am well-fed (as always); I have gas in the car to get where I need to go; people offer rides when I need to go farther. There is a clean bed; a roof that does not leak; air-conditioning in the hottest months. Still, an unkemptness follows like Pig-Pen's "cloud". My spikey hair does need upkeep. I like to smell like a girl. My glasses were five years old and my eyesight had changed several times, already. My sister's cast-off boots were too small and my brother's hand-me-down gloves were too big. So, I bundled my head in beanies and scarves and stuck my red hands in my pockets. Sneakers, I found, do have some traction in the snow.
My students, even those I tutored (and their families) didn't mind. In shredded jeans and hi-tops, I'd arrive at their homes, Shakespeare under my arm, a cup of coffee in my hand. (Friends and family were also generous with Dunkin Donuts gift certificates--which got me through two of the worst winters of my life!) The issue seemed to be resolved by my ragtag appearance: this teacher isn't going to judge us; all she cares about is teaching. So, in a very roundabout way, the Universe carved a niche for me, knocking any false pride I might have clung to right out of my grasp.
Now, the end of summer is in the air. You can smell it, here. Something in the ground and trees. The way the pine needles show silver edges in the wind. August and already, the last of the corn has come in. A few leaves are browning. The sun is fierce, for sure, when it arrives. But more days are clouded. Deep into the night, there is a beginning chill. I know autumn is on the approach. It makes me shiver with quiet excitement. Like the kids beginning to realize a new year is upon them, I both worry and welcome the challenge.
Going through the boxes, again, there is nothing unexplored. My first day of school will be met with worn clothes and sneakers scuffed. Thank God I love black. The formality will be intact. The mystery. Something to dangle in front of the imagination of my new class. I will pick my favorite summer night outfit and those neon green agro-soled "kicks". I have updated glasses, finally, and will see everyone clearly--as I hope they will see me. In a month, I can start rebuilding my life, here. Payback old debts. Pay up new ones. Save for my own continuing education--and a newer car to get there. And then...clothes that may be just a bit less faded; a bit less rumpled or worn.
As I resolve to make the best of this, I go down to breakfast. On the table is an envelope with my name on it. I assume it's from my sister, who has fled to Maine, with the niece and the dog, for vacation. (My "allowance" is not in effect this week because there is no dog to care for...perhaps this is pity money, for gas?) I tear open the edge. I pull out a note: "Pay this forward...sometime." Then, a hand-drawn heart, wrapped around one hundred dollars!
"I found it on the porch, when I went to put my flag out, " Dad says.
Mom knows nothing about it.
No one recognizes the printing, nor the envelope.
Clearly, it's not a family member.
A huge lump rises in my throat. Only a few friends realize I possibly have this new position--or that all of the money I earned this past school year has run dry--I'm totally busted--until my first paycheck--a month from now. Gas and bills have eaten my earnings away this summer. But I haven't really shared this with more than a few closest to me.
I have ideas who my angels are...
I also have ideas that to thank them, or confront them in a grateful manner, would embarrass them. They are the types of folks who believe any good deed should be done under cover of darkness with only God as a witness.
They delivered this amazingly generous gift in that deep night, even as I tossed and turned, worried, upstairs, in my bed.
I will have gas in the car to begin my school year. I will have school supplies in my briefcase. My hair will be kempt. I will smell like a girl. I will be, like most of my students, wearing an outfit that lets the world know I am ready for this new chapter--thanks to all of my angels; my family; my allies.
Rest assured: it will be paid forward. In your name. Soon.
Namaste.
Of course, realizing this, I tore into my "seven boxes". (All that remains of my past life in California...). What might be utilized? Which books? Any posters? Any art supplies? (Do I still have "professional shoes", or clothes that mark me as more than just a passing "sub" in the lives of students?) What haven't I already cannibalized?
When I first arrived, nothing I owned was appropriate for winter. As no one in my family is the same size nor shape (let alone having similar tastes), I was relegated to thrift stores and holiday sweaters no one would wear. Luckily, my taste for leather blazers allowed a rolling wardrobe for the sparse substitute jobs I landed. (I had stuffed five of them into one of the seven boxes, unwilling to leave those hard-earned items on the West Coast.) I'm sure I resembled some sort of outlander: leather and turtlenecks one day, the next with a reindeer and Santa sweater. Any "extra dough" I earned usually went into the rusting Subaru or shoes. (Still haven't mastered my "sneaker jones"...)
My family and friends were kind these last twenty-plus months. I am well-fed (as always); I have gas in the car to get where I need to go; people offer rides when I need to go farther. There is a clean bed; a roof that does not leak; air-conditioning in the hottest months. Still, an unkemptness follows like Pig-Pen's "cloud". My spikey hair does need upkeep. I like to smell like a girl. My glasses were five years old and my eyesight had changed several times, already. My sister's cast-off boots were too small and my brother's hand-me-down gloves were too big. So, I bundled my head in beanies and scarves and stuck my red hands in my pockets. Sneakers, I found, do have some traction in the snow.
My students, even those I tutored (and their families) didn't mind. In shredded jeans and hi-tops, I'd arrive at their homes, Shakespeare under my arm, a cup of coffee in my hand. (Friends and family were also generous with Dunkin Donuts gift certificates--which got me through two of the worst winters of my life!) The issue seemed to be resolved by my ragtag appearance: this teacher isn't going to judge us; all she cares about is teaching. So, in a very roundabout way, the Universe carved a niche for me, knocking any false pride I might have clung to right out of my grasp.
Now, the end of summer is in the air. You can smell it, here. Something in the ground and trees. The way the pine needles show silver edges in the wind. August and already, the last of the corn has come in. A few leaves are browning. The sun is fierce, for sure, when it arrives. But more days are clouded. Deep into the night, there is a beginning chill. I know autumn is on the approach. It makes me shiver with quiet excitement. Like the kids beginning to realize a new year is upon them, I both worry and welcome the challenge.
Going through the boxes, again, there is nothing unexplored. My first day of school will be met with worn clothes and sneakers scuffed. Thank God I love black. The formality will be intact. The mystery. Something to dangle in front of the imagination of my new class. I will pick my favorite summer night outfit and those neon green agro-soled "kicks". I have updated glasses, finally, and will see everyone clearly--as I hope they will see me. In a month, I can start rebuilding my life, here. Payback old debts. Pay up new ones. Save for my own continuing education--and a newer car to get there. And then...clothes that may be just a bit less faded; a bit less rumpled or worn.
As I resolve to make the best of this, I go down to breakfast. On the table is an envelope with my name on it. I assume it's from my sister, who has fled to Maine, with the niece and the dog, for vacation. (My "allowance" is not in effect this week because there is no dog to care for...perhaps this is pity money, for gas?) I tear open the edge. I pull out a note: "Pay this forward...sometime." Then, a hand-drawn heart, wrapped around one hundred dollars!
"I found it on the porch, when I went to put my flag out, " Dad says.
Mom knows nothing about it.
No one recognizes the printing, nor the envelope.
Clearly, it's not a family member.
A huge lump rises in my throat. Only a few friends realize I possibly have this new position--or that all of the money I earned this past school year has run dry--I'm totally busted--until my first paycheck--a month from now. Gas and bills have eaten my earnings away this summer. But I haven't really shared this with more than a few closest to me.
I have ideas who my angels are...
I also have ideas that to thank them, or confront them in a grateful manner, would embarrass them. They are the types of folks who believe any good deed should be done under cover of darkness with only God as a witness.
They delivered this amazingly generous gift in that deep night, even as I tossed and turned, worried, upstairs, in my bed.
I will have gas in the car to begin my school year. I will have school supplies in my briefcase. My hair will be kempt. I will smell like a girl. I will be, like most of my students, wearing an outfit that lets the world know I am ready for this new chapter--thanks to all of my angels; my family; my allies.
Rest assured: it will be paid forward. In your name. Soon.
Namaste.
No comments:
Post a Comment