Change is usually easy for me. My father was a corporate marketing manager; we moved every few years as he climbed the latter. My parents said moving was good for us. They viewed each new town as an adventure, each new school as a chance for us to practice the art of adaptation. At a young age I learned to turn my back on one world and walk into another without looking back. As a young adult, I found it easy to switch jobs, find new friends, and call a new town home. No hesitation. No regrets. Ever.
I’m not sure if I’m getting old or getting wise, but change feels oddly wistful now. As I contemplate moving on, I find myself pausing. I don’t want to forget how my world looks and feels. I’ve done this moving thing enough to know that although I will be missed, I am easily replaced. A new family will live in my house, a new teacher will teach in my classroom. Life will go on here without me and this time I’ll really miss it.
My husband is working on a joint venture with Deka, an engineering company outside Boston. He’s been traveling relentlessly since October and we’re tired of it. We’ve been married for 25 years and we still don’t like to be apart. Now that our youngest is going off to college, he wants me to join him in Boston. On an eleventh hour whim I applied to a graduate program at Harvard and as fate would have it, I got in. The details of transition fell neatly into place, like a big Christmas present with a perfectly tied maroon bow. So after an atypical period of waffling, I decided to accept the gift and go to Harvard. I am moving to Boston. I am leaving my life. And this time I’m looking back.
Today I made it official. I signed and submitted paperwork for a one year professional leave of absence from Ridgecrest, a school I have loved for almost a decade. My principal, who artfully nurtured my strengths and excused my weaknesses for eight years, accepted my paperwork and understood. I walked toward the door past the Big Bang photographs on the office wall and realized she was brave enough to let me follow my passions. She always said yes. She always trusted me. Working for someone who gets you is rare and precious. I doubt I’ll experience that again no matter how many fancy degrees I earn.
When I shared my plan with my beloved students in our traditional circle on the continent rug, they quickly reminded me why my upcoming departure will hurt. Without doubting my eventual return one thoughtful girl who lives in my neighborhood offered to watch over my house while I am gone. Another said, “You should keep a blog so we can follow everything you do in Boston and we can tell you everything we do in middle school. Then when you come back, we can feel like you never left.” One sweet boy said, “I’m really happy for you but I know my younger brother really wanted to be in your class next year.” And one tearful girl rested her head on my shoulder for the rest of the afternoon. No words, just the weight of her head on the side of my arm.
The art of adaptation doesn’t feel very artful today. Harvard’s mystique doesn’t feel very majestic today. And going back to the northeast, the region I always claimed was home, doesn’t feel like home today. Ridgecrest is home today. And I already miss it.
Gosh I’m getting old.
Friday, April 18, 2008
