The very strangest thing happened this morning.
My sweet Aunt Janet is in town, and she asked about the next book I’m writing, a memoir with the running title Every Confidence.
I talked about the first chapter that opens with this sentence: “The first bully of my life was my fourth grade teacher.”
(I will tell you that story someday.)
I told her how my terrible year as a fourth grader shaped who I later became as a teacher. I talked about my classroom, how I fostered such a joyful and colorful learning environment, how I so enjoyed my students and the community we created together. I told her about the affirmations I poured over them, about the poster in the classroom that said Today became great when YOU got here.
I told her how I loved teaching, loved my students, loved their families, loved it all. That’s when the strangest thing happened. All of a sudden, I wanted to teach again.
It was the voice of a little tiny speck of something inside me, like when Horton hears a Who. A tiny whisper called out, tugging on my heart, saying “We’re still here…”
I never thought I’d see this day or feel that tug on my heart.
Perhaps this whole thing of becoming a barista has shown me that Widow Brain wouldn’t last forever, my mind is still capable of great things, and only I can put the lid on the possibilities.
You can take the girl out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the girl.