Becoming

Hardly anyone thinks this will work. Ever since I've said that I'm quitting teaching, or at least quitting my teaching job, a steady stream of people have asked what I'll do next. When I'm feeling brave, I say I want to be writing. More often than not, I hear that there's no way it will work.

I understand what they're thinking and feeling because I often think and feel the same. I've been writing on the side for forty years. Longer really. Lately I write while teaching at-risk kids in a job that's killing me. Once upon a time I wrote while doing middle school. The idea of doing writing primarily, well, that sounds crazy to me too.

It also sounds so good.

The last couple weeks I've been saddled with even more trouble on the job than usual. I haven't slept well. I'm eating and drinking poorly. Writing has been a struggle. But I'm not stuck with these things. I have all sorts of choice. That's why I'm quitting the job. It's a first step toward doing something better. And I'm noticing that even when writing is hard, when I feel like I can't say anything well, it's good work that I want to be doing. That might change, but it has been true for four decades. I should pay attention to that kind of information.

Most of my troubles spring from not doing things that inspire me. Sure, it's unlikely that I can make a living wage by writing, but I'm much less likely to want to drive my car into Onondaga Lake. And yeah, I know that I haven't figured out what it is that I want to be writing, what exact story I have to tell, but I feel alive when trying to tell it. I need to chase that.

Maybe writing will make me some money. Maybe it won't. But what the hell? There's only one life given to each of us. I might as well try living it.

"I Used To Hurry A Lot, I Used To Worry A Lot"

(I still worry but don't hurry so much)

Back when I had a forty-minute commute on I-81 South I used to drive really fast, pushing the car up past seventy and toward eighty, often going fast through terrible Upstate New York weather. I white-knuckled the wheel even in good conditions worrying that sirens and lights would appear in my mirror. The commute filled me with anxiety but each day I tried to shave a few seconds off the drive. It seemed necessary to get there fast and faster.

One day I did math in my head as I often do when I'm driving. How much time, I wondered, was I saving by going seventy-five instead of sixty-five? I thought about it from Lafayette to Tully, but the numbers were all wrong. I figured it again through the wind shear roaring across the flat straight-away in Preble, getting the same results but not believing them. I couldn't possibly be saving only six minutes. No way. That couldn't be right. At school I worked it out on paper, incorporating the fact that I'm not on the highway the whole time and found I was saving at most only four minutes. That was the sum total return on my anxiety and risk-taking.

I slowed down the next day.

Later I figured out that my car gets its best mileage around sixty miles an hour. I found the right lane and let traffic pass me by. The first day going slowly I had a thought which got me laughing: Why the hell am I hurrying to get to a job I don't like? I mean really. I asked the question out loud alone in the car and laughed for a mile. It was easy to go slowly after that.

Since my first teaching job I've come to school way early so I can enjoy peace and the quiet. I love being in school alone. Sometimes the hall lights aren't even on. I've kept to that tradition even though just walking into my school pulls my mood down no matter how buoyant I hope to be. It's not like I need to be there early or that I'm doing school work. Most times I'm writing or reading. There's no need to go in early and every reason to stay. This morning, despite anxiously feeling I was late, I sat on our couch, opened my book, and read for twenty minutes instead of going in early.

Like my slow drive, a question came that made me happy. This time I smiled instead of laughing because by I'm no longer shocked at the revelation: Why would I leave my book early for a job I don't like? I mean really.

I can't quit the job yet, but I can confine it to the smallest space necessary and lock it up. Driving fast and leaving home early allow the job to take up too many hours on the clock of my life. There are better ways to spend my precious time and invest in a better life.

Friday morning because I left "late" I was still on the couch reading Jeff Tweedy's memoir when one of my daughters came down to get ready for school. A sleepy teenager, she didn't have much to say, but I kissed her head and there's no way to measure the impact that had on my day. At the job I still felt the warmth of loving her carrying me through to quitting time.

Of late I'm asking how do I want to live this life and at what pace? Sometimes it amounts to almost nothing. Friday, I folded the blanket after reading on the couch. I enjoyed taking a moment to fold and slow down. I felt no need to hurry. Talk about being on time.

I don't want to be late to my own life just to arrive early at my job. There's time to slow, to read, and fold a blanket. There is time to kiss my daughter's head, to say good morning, to feel love in my life, and to go write about it.

Monday Morning, Cold Dryer

The dryer isn't working. It has been in trouble for weeks. We run a load while we sleep and sometimes wake to cold, wet clothes. The heating element isn't working, but each time I think it's shot, I send the laundry around for another tumble and it works. Last night though, things stayed cold right through.

I write three morning pages every day. They are practice, therapy, and the beginnings of ideas. This morning I wrote of things breaking down, holes in my life, and dreams that keep me from sleep. It was all connected.

My basement writing nook isn't far from the dryer. This morning I ran the dryer hoping for luck. Towels tumbled while I wrote page one but, but the machine stayed cold. Midway through page two I left a message for service, thinking, okay what now?

It wasn't a reasoned question so much as a cry, like there weren't any good choices and life is difficult. My life can be difficult but not very. I mean, big deal, the dryer is broken. I started page three thinking, I'll go to the laundromat. That's where I am now, typing this. The clothes are drying. The whole thing cost a couple of quarters. Real big deal.

Thursday a guy will look at the dryer. He'll fix it or tell me to buy a new one. My mother will come over to let the guy in since I'll be at work. By Thursday afternoon I'll know the shape of this problem. Right now, I only know the vague outline. The dryer doesn't work is all I know.

Well, no, I also understand that I've called for service, asked Mom for help, and I have survived worse things than a broken dryer. There are holes in my life and reasons why I have trouble sleeping, but the dryer is easy. I might as well savor this whole experience from problem through solution, and everything in between. As far as I can see, stuff like this, well, that's life.

Spending The Morning

I worry how I spend my time, though the metaphor "spend" bugs me because thinking of life as a transaction is gross. A life lived as a series of transactions is only as interesting as the conveyor belt at the Wegmans register and leads to unhappiness on the order of the terrible orange maggot in the White House. I prefer to wonder how I am living and this morning I have put hours into reading and thinking about a long essay. 

The essay was Tim Urban's "How To Pick A Career" from the site Wait But Why, a great site of nothing but longreads. I printed the essay at school yesterday on the backs of previously used copy paper because I don't enjoy reading on a screen. 15,000 words took ninety pages. It's not Urban's longest or shortest piece and it has been about a year since he last published. You don't follow Wait But Why so much as wait for it. The wait is often worth it. 

I have a long-running career. I've been a school teacher for twenty-three years. I've taught college too and a bit of middle school as well as some summer programs, summer school, an SAT prep course (ugh), and professional development seminars for teachers through the National Writing Project. I've thought about ditching that career for writing, but I'm not sure I can make money at that and (here's the kicker) I don't know that I want to make a living doing it. I love to write and send those words out into the world. It's my favorite work. I'm not sure I would love turning that work into my job, my career. For now, I'll keep writing and keep the teaching career. 

Which makes it odd that I would spend most of my morning reading 15,000 words and thinking about how to pick a career.

Part of the reason is that I like Tim Urban's writing. I'll follow him most places he goes. That's especially true in the case of thinking about how to live. 

I think a lot about the directions in which I'm moving, the ways in which I'm choosing to live. I worry I'll end in regret when I'm old. Regret come from a place of accepting what's handed out instead of actively choosing. Reading things like this helps me stay focused on making my own choices. 

My two girls are coming of age and are making choices. I want to give them good advice, not about what to choose but about how to think and choose. I want to feel okay about their processes rather than anxious. My anxiety won't do us any good. Maybe some people do this sort of thing naturally, but if I leave it to chance, leave it unconsidered, I'll bung it all up. 

I've also just come through some turbulence. I worked toward a life change only to have the opportunity evaporate. I was shocked and devastated, but have begun to think I may be on a more interesting path now. 

A friend says he didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up until his forties. He doesn't truly believe in end points or goal posts outside of sports. We keep going, keep becoming. We don't finish growing up. I've been growing up for nearly fifty years and I'm not quitting. I read articles such as this because I'm playing a game I don't ever want to end. 

Back in the economic terminology, I wonder was reading and thinking about this worth most of my morning? It didn't earn me a damn thing in the immediate, but now, an hour later, I've got this piece of writing. I'll post it where, again, it will earn nothing for my wallet. Was reading the essay worth most of my morning? Only if there are bigger things than economics, only if there are other kinds of wealth. 

A student asked me about college, if it was "like a great party time." I said that, going back after failing out, I wasn't much for parties but college remains the one concentrated time in my life to which I most like to return. He thought I meant that I'd go back if I could, but I meant I return to the college experience often in the form of deep-dives into ideas. I did it early this month reading Alan Jacobs' book How To Think when I kept reading all the articles he referenced in there and ordered three more books from the library because of it. I did it again this morning with Tim Urban's essay, writing notes, underlining passages, and now writing my own piece because of it. I like to study, to take on new ideas, incorporate them into my thinking, and see what happens. I'm curious how I might change. Reading "How To Pick A Career" didn't lead me directly into a new career or confirm my current career beyond a shadow of a doubt. It merely pushed me further into living, but that's good enough work for any morning. 

I'm richer for it.