Musings from a Not-So-Master Teacher

I take out the Miracle Bubbles, say a prayer for world peace and blow.  I assume it won’t work, but it’s worth a shot. Though the advertising may be false, what more can I expect from a seventy cent children’s toy? Joel claps his hands and then delicately pops each one with his index fingers.  When this gets old, I stare at tiny drops of water at the bottom of the trampoline.  For two minutes, which feels like an eternity, I am mesmerized by the light refracting and changing colors.  Tiny drops of colors, which I suppose isn’t all that different from a computer screen, but for some reason it feels more authentic when it’s a drop on a trampoline than an electric drop forming a more beautiful picture on a screen telling me exactly how many friends I have – which isn’t many, sixty-one in all, compared to the vast number everyone else seems to have.  I guess it could be sixty-two if I added Tom, whose the token friend to anyone who applies. 

Somehow, as I hold my son and he points at the swing set and I stare at the drops of water, this feels more real than the computer screen or the radio or the DVD machine that lets me see beautiful people in thirty-second increments with timed laughter.  I take a deep breath and realize that I haven’t finished cleaning the kitchen and I haven’t read my e-mail in three days and I haven’t shaved in the last few days. 

The truth is that I’m feeling lonely right now.  I always do on a break, because vacation time makes me realize how disconnected I am to community.  Connected isn’t the right term.  It makes it sound like all I need to do is plug myself in to some USB port and instantly I’ll belong.  Honestly, I am a bad friend and an introvert, which means I find it too easy to forget about people and community.  I wonder how often I keep busy at work to conceal the fact that I am always scared that people won’t like me.

I was the kid who struck out in the ninth, when the bases were loaded, when every other kid’s dad would cuss internally but give me a nice-guy “It’s okay,” after it was all over.  Being oversensitive, I would wait until I got home to cry and I’d wonder why my identity had to be tied to something as arbitrary as the ability to swing a bat.  I wonder if that’s a part of why I became a teacher – because I never completely fit in and I always receieved that message that if I were taller or stronger or more coordinated or had less zits on my face, I would matter in the social scheme. 

There’s a part of me that hates vacation.  Hate is probably too strong of a word.  I guess I fear vacation, because I am so used to the routine of a classroom.  Sure, the break is nice for a day or two.  I enjoy taking naps and snacking when I want and being with Christy and Joel and Micah.  It’s just that I don’t know what to do with myself, with that freedom of a vacation.  I want to fill it with important things, because I want to feel important.  I want to write a book or read a book so that I might sound smarter, so that maybe I won’t be that guy who strikes out in the ninth inning. That’s the beauty of vacation - that the world continues just fine without my hard work.  There’s something humbling about the fact that students are just fine without me.

Most teachers I know are in Mexico or San Diego or the Bahamas.  They spend the time getting back massages and drinking cold beer.  Or, if they're maried, they take the family to Disneyland for a magical excursion.  Sometimes, I wish I could take a vacation.  Yet, I chose a sabbatical instead.  A vacation is an escape into entertainment and amusement and comfort.  A sabbatical is a withdrawl.  It's a time to take joy in the ordinary things of life, to reflect on my vocation and to remember that there are things in life more important than a stack of papers or a lesson plan binder. It's a time when I can let my mind wander. 

A sabbatical is as important as teaching time.  It’s a time for me to stare at nothing, to chase Joel around the living room, to meet a friend whom I haven’t seen in months. Yet, it’s more than an escape.  I used to see it that way and get angry at myself for never “leaving” work.  In forcing myself to forget, I would fixate on forgetting and think about work even more.  Now, I give myself room too dream of new ideas or plan for future projects.  Although I still yearn for the massage and cold beer, on Monday morning I will feel rested while the vacationers feel like they need another vacation.